


All's Fair in Love and War

by sherlockpond



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After the church scene, Angst, Fix-It, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, One-Shot, Post-1941 scene, Underground Bar, these dumb boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockpond/pseuds/sherlockpond
Summary: It's 1941, the Church has been destroyed by a German bomb. Crowley has his arm aloft waiting for Aziraphale to take a bag of first edition books. This is what happens after he does.(an extra scene for ep. 3's cold open)





	All's Fair in Love and War

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I joined the GO's hype train. Out of everything, I felt like *this* scene needed a little bit tacked on. Please be kind, I'm unfamiliar with the characters so they might seem a little OOC.
> 
> Imagine this just continued from the scene in ep. 3.
> 
> Please enjoy!
> 
> (Includes a bonus scene with mentions of sex, so like, you've been forewarned)

There’s a pause in the way that Crowley holds his ladened hand out expectantly, the heavy medical case holding miraculously saved books inside. Aziraphale stares for a second before realising he’s paused perhaps a moment too long, he reaches and takes the bag is frozen with surprise. 

He’s frozen with such surprise because it is at this point a horrible realisation washes upon everyone’s favourite Principality of God. The kind of realisation that is big and ugly, terrible but true. One of those truths that you hide from yourself and then, out of nowhere, it leaps out at you and suddenly your unexplained actions over recent days (or millennia - depending on your average time-span) slot into an awful alignment.

Aziraphale watches the retreating figure of Crowley, picking his path through mounds of medieval rubble and debris. There's a small patch of fire which he side steps, but Aziraphale assumes it’s to save singeing his suit rather than anything else. A small smile lingers on the Angels lips, and he only snaps from his train of thought when Crowley is in the far distance and in danger of turning around and catching the other man gazing at him longingly.

Hurriedly picking his way through the wreckage, Aziraphale catches up with Crowley and they walk in silence to the Bentley, which was parked a safe distance away. His heart is still racing with nervous anticipation from the night’s events, and the Angel daren’t look the other man in the eyes. They reach the car and both climb inside, there's a strange tension in the air and Aziraphale swears that Crowley  _ must _ feel it too.

He goes to talk, but Crowley beats him to it.

“There's a bar I know in an old Underground station, fancy a ride there until this whole Blitz nonsense passes over?” he asks casually, eyebrows raised.

Aziraphale looks back skeptically “Wouldn't it be safer to go somewhere nearby and wait? I believe there's a public refuge station not too far from here. It's dangerous to spend too much time out in the open. I’ve grown too fond of this shape to lose it now,”

Crowley shrugs “Trust me, just this once. They’ve got a case of the most  _ gorgeous _ Pinot Noir, angel,”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes “How far away is it?”

“With my driving? Ten minutes,” Crowley says dismissively. 

The Angel rolls his eyes and braces himself on the dashboard “Alright, go on then,”

Crowley smirks and puts his foot to the floor.

  
  
  


They park in a place Crowley knows is safe (Aziraphale doesn’t ask how), and enter the small bar via a tiny, damp alleyway, a back entrance which leads to a staircase that looks far too private to be considered a commonly used route for members of the public.

The door to the bar swings open, it's rusted, wet and there's moss growing in the corner. As the door opens Aziraphale immediately notes that it’s dark, dingy, the air thick with cigarette smoke. With a sigh, the angel follows the demon down a narrow spiral staircase and into a lobby area.

The further inside they tread, the more rustic features begin to fall away, instead crimson drapes hang from the ceiling and line the walls, luxurious gold fastenings hold them in place. The floor becomes plush, doors appear to be rich dark wood, there's no windows, understandably, but expensive paintings hang in their place. Small tables are dotted around, intimate with no more than three chairs to each one, candles light up the gloom in small alcoves around the edge of the room, giving it an almost religious atmosphere.

For the most part, the clientele look male, but occasionally there’s a woman sitting at a dimly lit table, lipstick perfect and hair set in place beautifully. Aziraphale tugs at the collar of his shirt, feeling a little underdressed.

“Relax,” Crowley hisses over his shoulder “you're putting  _ me  _ on edge,”

Aziraphale swallows thickly as a host (who very suddenly appears) gestures them to a small table in the corner with velvet curtains, there's a jazz band on a very small performing area, their music slow and melancholy. Aziraphale would believe he’s been transported into a spy novel if it wasn't for the fact he feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb in his beige ensemble.

“Sit down,” Crowley murmurs, and he does, his chair bumping the table loudly, gaining the disparaging looks from the surrounding tables.

The demon rolls his eyes and nods to the waiter who promptly disappears to the bar.

“I gather you visit regularly?” Aziraphale quips and Crowley smirks.

“Time to time, the Blitz can be a bit too morose, even for me,” he replies sourly, leaning back in his chair whilst the very prompt waiter brings a bottle of red wine and two crystal cut stem glasses, another nod is shared, along with a few pound notes. 

The waiter closes the velvet curtain as far as they'll go, giving them privacy on nearly all sides. A shudder vibrates the crystal on the deep red tablecloth and the pair glance upwards for a brief moment.

“This is all your doing,” Aziraphale says bitterly “there was the first one, which was absolutely  _ awful _ , and now  _ you lot _ decide to go through it all again. Can't you at least spread them out, they’ve barely recovered from the last one?”

Crowley tuts “I've already told you that this isn't us, this is all the  _ other lot.  _ But I’ll tell you something, when Hitler gets down there,” he scoffs loudly “boy, oh, boy is there going to be a torturing akin to  _ nothing  _ seen before,” he grins slyly.

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose in disgust “You could at least pretend to not be excited by it,”

Crowley pouts and takes a sip of wine “Don’t get ‘holier than thou’ on me, Angel, I know you're record isn't exactly spotless,”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen comically “You said you'd never mention that in public!”

Crowley raises his eyebrows quickly and smiles broadly, black lenses hiding his eyes but the Angel knows exactly the smug expression underneath, the demon leans back taking another long sip of wine.

Placing his glass back down on the table, Crowley pulls the spectacles from his face and rests them on the table.

“Don't get so ruffled,” he says scratching his neck absent-mindedly “you're like a mother hen,”

Aziraphale huffs and shakes his head, he rises “Look, I didn't come with you so you could make fun of me, I thought it would be  _ nice _ . And regardless of whether it's raining bombs out there right now, I'd rather take my chances than be a form of entertainment for you,” he stands, pulling on his overcoat when Crowley says:

“Angel, wait. I wanted to explain why I came to the church,” he pauses “properly,”

Aziraphale’s forehead wrinkles, eyebrows furrow in confusion.

Crowley lets out a sigh and looks almost...self-conscious, and extremely uncomfortable.

Aziraphale smiles shyly “Now who’s ruffled?” he bites back, but there's no venom or animosity.

Crowley rolls his eyes “Please sit,” he gestures to the seat and Aziraphale hesitantly sits, overcoat still on.

“As much as I hate to admit it, you're  _ not _ the butt to all my jokes,”

“Doesn't always feel like it,” Aziraphale mutters

Crowley smiles and gestures wildly “See? Most Angels would just agree, but there's something about  _ you _ and the way you've learnt to just give it straight back to me. You and I have walked amongst these humans so long, we've picked up some of  _ their _ traits.”

“How is this answering the question as to why you came to the church tonight?” 

“I'm getting to that.” Crowley snaps before carrying on “it's free will. Can't you see? The others fear it, they run from it, wrap themselves in the divine plan, or whatever helps them get through the centuries. But  _ we know _ . We've learnt how to think for ourselves, to be suspicious --,”

“-- you're  _ always  _ suspicious --,”

Crowley wrinkles his nose “ - fair point - but don’t you  _ see? We don't act like them. _ We don't make the same choices as they would. We've been down here so long, we don't have the same thought process as they do. Angel, we've changed. As much as you hate to admit it, we’re not like them anymore.”

Aziraphale shakes his head “I still don't understand how  _ any  _ of this is relevant.”

Crowley sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose “I'm trying to tell you, as celestial beings, we aren't  _ confined  _ by our hereditary upbringings. We can feel things. We're open-minded, something I never thought I'd say whilst describing you.”

Aziraphale points his nose a little higher and haughtily says “Well, that's charming,”

“I'm  _ trying _ to get to the point!”

“I wish you would!”

Crowley rises and slams his hands on the table, the glasses and bottle teeter precariously “You insufferable creature, I'm trying to tell you that I think,” he takes a deep breath “I think…. I  _ love _ you,”

Aziraphale goes incredibly quiet. Eyes wide, forehead wrinkled. Crowley lets out a sharp breath, and wipes his face with a hand.

There's no noise. All the other tables are silent and band has stopped. A shudder wracks the bar, some dust falls from the ceiling onto the table.

Crowley’s mouth moves but no words come out, he tries to process his thoughts but they're all jumbled and he can't  _ think. _

Aziraphale reaches for his glass of wine and takes a long sip. It's tense. He takes a long breath.

“My dear man, it would seem we've both been rather foolish,” he says quietly, Crowley looks almost terrified as he all but falls back into his seat.

Aziraphale smiles sadly “After we met, in the Garden all those millennia ago, I told myself ‘I must stick to the grand plan’. And over the many, many years I couldn't help but start to question it all. ‘What  _ is  _ this grand plan?’ ‘What's it all  _ for?’ _ ‘Who would notice if I just disappeared, and kept bees somewhere on the coast?’”

“I would,” Crowley interjected sagely.

Aziraphale gives him an appreciative smile “It was fear to disobey. To be  _ different.  _ But in doing so, in having those thoughts, I  _ became _ different, I had feelings. I always wondered if  _ She _ made me that way,” he pauses and reaches across to place a warm hand on the side of Crowley’s face “we've spent  _ milennia  _ dancing around each other, my dear, and ever since the  _ not  _ apocalypse, I've wondered whether I should be doing more to make  _ myself happy.  _ And what makes me happy, heavens above, is  **_you_ ** ,”

There's a few seconds of silence.

Crowley looks at him, puzzled “So, it would seem we've reached an impasse,”

Aziraphale smiles fondly “It would rather,”

The glassware on the table shakes as a bomb hits the ground far above.

“You said you ‘think’ you love me,” Aziraphale says quietly, looking down and tracing his glass with a finger.

“Know,” Crowley counters immediately “I know it,” he lets out a long breath “I feel it,”

Aziraphale’s eyes snap upwards and a glowing smile radiates from him, Crowley would roll his eyes if it wasn't so bloody endearing.

“Well…” Crowley begins, but he trails off and looks a little stressed - as though a cat in a new house.

“Well…?” Aziraphale teases quietly.

Crowley scowls and reaches to take a quick swig of his wine, it's a little crunchy with ceiling grit but he digresses “Once this is over, maybe you could…?”

“Could…?” Aziraphale repeats slowly.

Crowley pouts “Angel, this is very difficult for me. Please humour me and be the kind celestial that She made you,”

Aziraphale grins and nods “Fine, please carry on,”

Crowley coughs and follows it with a sniff “Would you...do me the...uh...honour of accompanying me to my home? Once we get the all-clear,”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose playfully, and doesn't look convinced. But he smiles and laughs under his breath at how difficult Crowley scrapes for the words.

“I will. Although, that confession has made you look rather ill, so I'm not sure how reliable it is,” Aziraphale jibes as Crowley sighs dramatically.

The Angel chuckles to himself and reaches across the table to take one of Crowley's hands into his “I know it's hard. I understand,” he rubs a thumb along the bony curve of the demons hand and the action visibly relaxes him.

“I love you, too,”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**_Fin_ **

  
  
  
  
  


**Bonus:**

Cold white dawn spills into a bedroom in Mayfair, the inhabitants of the bed still sleeping. 

There's a gentle breeze blowing, and a white curtain ripples in the morning air, the window open after a warm summer's evening. 

The occupants slumber on.

Horns from taxis, the rasp of buses and the shrill ring of police cars don't disturb them, wrapped in down filled bedding, bohemian bedspreads and Egyptian cotton, you could almost call it heaven. Two men - well, men at first glance to you or I - lie, the one curved to fit the other, and if you saw them you'd swear they fit together like the last pieces of a puzzle. Shouts from below don't wake them, nor the almost heartbeat patois of the underground beneath the building, neither man having slept for all that long even though retiring at a reasonable hour. There had been too much to say, to many places for hands to explore, mouths to kiss and fingertips to trace.Their bodies, unknown to them yesterday, where made for the other and  _ finally _ they had realised.

The darker haired of the two stirs and wakes quite naturally, he's reminded of the situation he's in as his senses come back to him. He's on the outside of this particular embrace, although he internally wishes he was the one being held (though he'd never admit it). He gently pushes his nose into the fair-hair of his companion, taking a long quiet breath, his grasp on the smaller man becomes automatically tighter and he closes his eyes, wondering why he couldn't have had this since the beginning.

There's a shift and the other man has roused from sleep, rolls in the arms of the other and lifts his head to meet for a kiss. It's slow, but chaste, and in the morning light one might forget that there's a war simmering, threatening their little haven.

Lazy hands move and there's another pressing of lips; fingertips draw patterns down bed warm skin and rest in sensitive places. 

There's no hurrying, only the feint sound of skin rubbing, small gasps and appreciative inhales. Their kiss becomes a little more feverish, the air gains heat and the bedding grows a little damp.

There's an edge of desperation but it's still early and their bodies are only just waking, a spare hand tugs at hair and lips dive to brush against the newly exposed skin, it's hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. It all seems so wonderfully human.

They could almost be sleeping if it wasn't for the occasional huff of breath from bitten lips, or the clear movement of the linen. The keening grows higher pitch, toes begin to curl, jaws are clenched and muscles grow taught, gasps grow louder and the mattress below creaks as hand motions become quicker. 

Hips cant, pulses quicken as blood boils hotter and thicker, mouths are less coordinated and hang open as they press against one another, jets of warm breath from dry lips. Small, indistinguishable words are passed from one to the other, a head is buried in a shoulder, skin pressed so close it sweats within seconds, slickly sliding with the joined movement. 

In this moment, both participants wonder how they survived without this, how they managed to live for millennia in abstinence because all of their nerve endings burn and tingle, small hairs pointing up, every brush of skin feels like static. The one begins to feel the sensation of climax and the other guides them through it, stroking, whispering, coaxing it from him, heavy breaths follow, speeded motions before the other is bent like a violin bow, taut, lying on his back as warmth spreads and streams of hot wetness spills.

There's a brief pause as muscles relax and hands are wiped, before any unwanted emissions are simply thought away. Lips meet quietly, a head rests on a collarbone and there's a shared, breathy laugh about an unspoken joke which neither have to tell. Long, spindly hands caress soft skin and there are smiles shared when it tickles. Legs are entangled, low morning voices rumble with breakfast plans and complaints of bad breath.

God looks down on her two favourite creations,  _ and smiles _ .

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So follow me on tumblr, if you want:
> 
> sherlockpond.tumblr.com
> 
> Kudos and (constructive) comments are always appreciated.


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